Looking around the dark, inviting room, thinking of life. It’s funny how u get thrown into things. The room u are in, for whatever reason. The things around you. u must’ve came to like them in some way, how though? Did it capture interest? Is it something a friend has gave you?
How did I get to this point? Feeling fiction from reading of writing is life, instead of my own. Wanting to be cast as characters in stories, but not my own life. Anxiety grows to be meer like fictitious characters. I don’t understand my own life these days. All jumbled up, and disconnecting.
Anxiety like panic attacks hit me randomly. Especially when thinking of fiction. hart-, hart races, nausea, dizzy spells, sometimes hallucinations, mainly when up a three a.m.
Closed-off, grumpy, thoughtful, manipulative, private, shy, ignorance despising, hypocritical just a few words to describe me. Everyone can be hypocritical. We are all so cruel in our own way.
No one can comfort me, nor do I feel anyone will listen. The ones who would, I’m terrified to talk to. I’ve driven myself to the point I feel like love isn’t real, and I’m silenced, and broken. I’m a fake, supportive, third wheel. I’m a sad head case that’s why I refuse to unload on anyone. I seem pathetic, even to myself.
I want to sob, yet I can’t seem to find tears anymore. They’ve evaporated. A few people make my hart-, hart crack when my eyes fall upon them. meer tears gone. My hate toward love grows.
A close friend, she jumps on me for treating guys as if they’re disposable. I know she is right. Why do I? No one holds interest, commitment problems, scared, annoyance, I don’t know! I don’t know if I believe in love, of not. I want to, but its risky.
What is love? An orgasm with a lover? An I love u from your mother? A pat on the back from your best friend forever? A peck on the cheek from the boy volgende door, of the last kiss on the lips from an older couple saying goodbye? But there is no goodbye. For, we love even in death. There is no till death do we part.
Life will neve ber fully comprehendible. Never an answer to the why. Live, and don’t wait to die! Push it back, for it will cause worry, and anxiety. Live with happiness, not fear, and think about this for you’ve never thought of it before. Though, its has been zei more, and more.
You only live once. u have a good forty years at the least. Four decades if your lucky. If your really lucky, longer. Then, your gone, no house, no friends, no air, no body, nothing, but your soul, and the afterlife. This is it, so make it count.
No. I refuse to let myself be roped back into this…must...break…free…before...all….hell…breaks loose……….
Black…It’s all black…
How did I get to this point? Feeling fiction from reading of writing is life, instead of my own. Wanting to be cast as characters in stories, but not my own life. Anxiety grows to be meer like fictitious characters. I don’t understand my own life these days. All jumbled up, and disconnecting.
Anxiety like panic attacks hit me randomly. Especially when thinking of fiction. hart-, hart races, nausea, dizzy spells, sometimes hallucinations, mainly when up a three a.m.
Closed-off, grumpy, thoughtful, manipulative, private, shy, ignorance despising, hypocritical just a few words to describe me. Everyone can be hypocritical. We are all so cruel in our own way.
No one can comfort me, nor do I feel anyone will listen. The ones who would, I’m terrified to talk to. I’ve driven myself to the point I feel like love isn’t real, and I’m silenced, and broken. I’m a fake, supportive, third wheel. I’m a sad head case that’s why I refuse to unload on anyone. I seem pathetic, even to myself.
I want to sob, yet I can’t seem to find tears anymore. They’ve evaporated. A few people make my hart-, hart crack when my eyes fall upon them. meer tears gone. My hate toward love grows.
A close friend, she jumps on me for treating guys as if they’re disposable. I know she is right. Why do I? No one holds interest, commitment problems, scared, annoyance, I don’t know! I don’t know if I believe in love, of not. I want to, but its risky.
What is love? An orgasm with a lover? An I love u from your mother? A pat on the back from your best friend forever? A peck on the cheek from the boy volgende door, of the last kiss on the lips from an older couple saying goodbye? But there is no goodbye. For, we love even in death. There is no till death do we part.
Life will neve ber fully comprehendible. Never an answer to the why. Live, and don’t wait to die! Push it back, for it will cause worry, and anxiety. Live with happiness, not fear, and think about this for you’ve never thought of it before. Though, its has been zei more, and more.
You only live once. u have a good forty years at the least. Four decades if your lucky. If your really lucky, longer. Then, your gone, no house, no friends, no air, no body, nothing, but your soul, and the afterlife. This is it, so make it count.
No. I refuse to let myself be roped back into this…must...break…free…before...all….hell…breaks loose……….
Black…It’s all black…
